


Contractual Obligations

by firefright, Skalidra



Category: DCU, Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Gen, Manipulation, Memory Loss, One-Sided Tara Markov/Slade Wilson, Reunions, Underage Kissing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-07-24 17:43:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20018467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firefright/pseuds/firefright, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: Given the work he's done for the Light in the past, Slade's not particularly surprised to get a call from Ra's al Ghul, inviting him to take on a more private contract. Finding a supposedly dead Robin standing amongst the League's rank and file, however, that's a new one.





	Contractual Obligations

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome! This comes from the new season of Young Justice, where neither of us were fond of the 'Slade is part of/rules the League' change, in this as well as in the recent animated movies. So, we wanted to give him a reason to be doing that. From there, Jason, and so things go. Please enjoy!
> 
> (A note that this contains the somewhat-standard Tara/Slade interactions. It's all one-sided, and nothing happens but a kiss, but it is there.)

Slade’s not in the habit of making rash decisions, usually. He likes to plan things out, he likes to know how he’s going to accomplish a mission and follow that plan as closely as the reality of it allows. It’s served him well, in the years he’s lived, and the only cost to being overly prepared is a waste of a bit of his time. Time that he’s in no short supply of, thanks to his enhancements and his lifestyle.

Planning has never been hard to stick to, generally speaking. Especially not when it comes to the contracts the Light hands out. They understand the value of a solid plan. More importantly, they understand the truth of ‘getting what you pay for,’ and Slade’s the very best in that regard. They come to him first, when they need someone outside their little group, or someone with his very particular skill set. They tell him what they want, pay him half up front in case of any… issues, with their neighbourly heroes, and he’s allowed to make and execute his own plans to accomplish their goals. It’s mutually profitable.

Which is why he wasn’t particularly surprised to have Ra’s al Ghul call him to discuss another contract. A more personal one this time, one that he refuses to explain over long range communication.

It only takes a relatively short flight to get him to the little island that Ra’s’ directions point him to, barely a building in sight under the tree cover. As hidden as the League’s primary base of operations but, when he’s escorted inside, not nearly as expansive. It’s small, in fact, for a megalomaniac dictator like the ‘Demon’s Head.’ Interesting.

He keeps himself as updated on the Light’s affairs as casual gossip and news will get him, but he doesn’t specifically track any of them. This is an odd place for Ra’s al Ghul to be spending his time; there must be something happening he’s unaware of.

What it is becomes immediately apparent the moment he enters the office-space that the League minions escort him to. Talia is standing there beside and behind her father, a baby all but hidden in the rich green cloth it’s swaddled in, held in her arms. He can just see the edge of black hair, and slightly paler skin than his mother possesses. Whoever the father was, he must have been lighter skinned.

A child of the demon, presumably a new heir, would certainly require seclusion. Not every member of the League of Shadows is as completely loyal as Ra’s al Ghul demands. Slade might not have positive proof of that, but it’s an inevitability with an organization built of as many killers as that. Not everyone will want to serve forever.

“Ah, Wilson. Welcome. The flight wasn’t too long, I hope?”

“Nothing I haven’t done before,” he answers, and takes the glass of wine that gets offered to him without allowing his consideration to show in his expression. If it’s poisoned, it would have to be a truly massive quantity to be any real danger. What would be the point, anyway? Probably no harm in humoring. “Interesting place for you to be. This little vacation have something to do with that contract you’re interested in?”

“It does indeed.” Ra’s extends his free hand towards the set of armchairs around the fireplace, demand masked under polite words as he says, “Please, come sit down. As I mentioned, I have a proposition for you.”

Slade takes a glance around the room as he follows, taking in the League members standing against the walls; silent guardians for their masters. They’re nothing more than faceless cannon fodder, evident enough by their identical uniforms and masks. Either al Ghul could destroy them in a heartbeat, as could any real threat. Like him. But Ra’s al Ghul knows that Slade wouldn’t unless paid to, which is probably the only reason he’s been allowed to keep his weaponry. The show of ‘force’ is a… reminder.

“A private contract,” he fills in, taking a seat at the armchair that Ra’s flicks his fingers towards. The wine isn’t bad, when he takes a first sip of it. Richer than he likes his alcohol, but he doesn’t taste anything but the grapes. “I’m listening, Demon’s Head.”

Ra’s’ smile is sharp, but no more than usual. He starts to talk. Slade listens.

The al Ghuls want him to take over the League of Shadows and keep the title of Demon’s Head safe, until they return to claim it. He keeps the seat warm, rebuffs any attempts at murdering him for it, and follows their main bullet points of how to run things. It’s not his usual, but it’s long-term pay and doesn’t sound like too complicated a job. There aren’t any other jobs as promising waiting for him, and being the temporary Demon’s Head would definitely come with… perks. Besides, he can always take a day or two off and fulfill a normal contract if one comes up he’s interested in it. Or send one of the little League minions to do it for him.

Being the target of assassinations isn’t his favorite, but things have been quiet and the… challenge, appeals to him. The League of Shadows has some of the best killers in the world. Of course, _he’s_ the best. Could be fun to prove that.

Ra’s persuades, laying out all the benefits of his temporary decision, and Slade’s pretty much decided to accept when his attention is diverted for just a moment.

One of the silent little minions standing at the back of the room lifts his head a few inches, and Slade glances towards the movement on automatic, just long enough to confirm the source before returning his gaze to Ra’s. It’s nothing more than a brief glimpse under the hood of the uniform, but as his mind disseminates the information provided by the glance, something _pings_. Like the echo of a drop of water in an otherwise silent room. _Something_ is there.

As much as he prefers to follow plans, Slade never ignores an instinct.

That itch at the back of his mind makes him take a second glance. Standard uniform, average height, lean and clearly fit. Probably young, if the smoothness of the small amount of skin visible at his neck and forehead is to be believed. A mask covers everything from his eyebrows downwards, like any other League member, but there are black bangs that fall in front of it, at either side. It's the only real piece of him that offers any hint of identity. Enough for a strange sense of familiarity to come over Slade, though he can’t immediately place it.

He refocuses on Ra’s, letting his brain turn that familiarity over, examine it, as he pretends to be paying full attention.

The speech is finally drawing to an end when something _clicks_ , like the first tumbler in a lock. A vivid memory of another black-haired, masked boy with bangs that hung _just_ like that. Also in a primarily red costume, as it happens. A boy that’s been dead for years. Murdered by the Joker on one of the ‘Team’s’ little missions.

That boy is the reason that Nightwing and the Bat are so protective of all the other members of their group, especially the new Robin. It only took one mistake to get the middle child killed.

If he were anywhere but among the League of Shadows, talking to a man who regularly scrapes off age with a magical green pit like it’s nothing more than dirt, Slade would dismiss the familiarity as nothing more than his mind playing tricks on him. But there Ra's stands. He's 'come back' more than once, been alive for centuries. One dead boy being alive again isn’t as ridiculous an idea as Slade would usually believe, and it’s something he doesn’t have much trouble believing Ra’s al Ghul might actually do. Doubtless the al Ghuls don’t want to share the Lazarus Pit with anyone else, but a thought-dead Bat would be valuable in a lot of ways, especially to the Light. The secrets he could spill…

Enough to ruin the lives of all his family, and that's not even touching on what he knows about the rest of the Justice League, or their little unofficial team of teen heroes.

Of course, there are other ways a dead boy could be valuable, too.

"So, Wilson? Do you accept the contract?"

Slade considers for a few moments. The contract’s definitely one he’s interested in. Run the League for a while, while Ra's and his daughter do whatever it is they're scheming. Get paid for it. The Light will probably get in touch with him to do more, considering he'll have control of the League of Shadows, and they pay well too. All things considered, it's not a bad way to spend the next few months of his life.

But he's got something else that's caught his interest, now. Why not see if Ra's will give him that, too?

"I’ll take your contract, with one addendum.”

Ra’s lifts an eyebrow. “Oh? What’s that?”

Slade nods in the direction of the boy. “Give me him.”

Ra's doesn't turn to look, which is another point in the direction of Slade being right about this random connection. Sure, maybe al Ghul knows every minion under his control and simply doesn’t need to, but more likely, he knows exactly who Slade is referring to. And, judging by that little micro-expression of a frown, is regretting having him in the room at all.

Talia, interestingly, is the one to react a touch more openly. The look she fixes him with, over her child, is cold steel. A threat and promise both, over what, the boy? Now why would she care what happens to him?

The moment stretches just a bit too long, before Ra's gives a faint inclination of his head. "You may take him with you, for the duration of your job. But I expect him returned along with the rest of my League, when the time comes for me to collect it."

“Of course.”

“Then we have a deal. Agreed, Wilson?”

“Deal.” Slade smiles. "I'll keep your seat warm; pleasure doing business with you, al Ghul."

"Yes, a pleasure," Ra's agrees, tone suggesting it's certainly not. "The first installment will be wired to you, and Lady Shiva has been told to expect your arrival. You may leave when you're ready."

Probably shouldn't rub the victory in Ra's' face too much. He might need a favor now, but grudges are easy things to be patient about when you have an army at your fingertips. Or when you’re immortal.

He dips his head; as close to a bow as he has any intention of giving. Then he looks to the boy, who's watching more openly now, tense enough that it's clear he didn't expect to be singled out. Interesting. Clearly there's something going on, given that he's here serving Ra's al Ghul instead of running for his family, but it might be more than that. Some form of mind control? Brainwashing? Well, he'll certainly find out.

"Got any belongings to collect, boy?"

No words, just a shake of his head.

"Good, then you're with me. We've got a long flight; sooner we're in the air the sooner it's done with. Let's go."

He's turned away, the boy moving forward to be at his heels, when Ra's speaks again.

"Ah yes, Wilson. The Light has someone they'll be sending to the League to be sheltered and trained, until the time comes for her to be placed where we want her." Ra's is the one to turn away now, flicking one hand dismissively. "I'll have them contact you with the details."

Of course, a deal like this would come with strings attached. Nothing he can't handle, of course, and he can extract a further payment from the Light, if they want him to do their dirty work.

"I'll look forward to it."

* * *

Waiting is easy. Jason doesn’t know why, but he knows that it’s simple and familiar to settle in a single place and ignore the restless itch under his skin. He can stand for hours in a single spot. Has, more than once in the time he remembers.

He stands, watches, and listens. As he’s supposed to.

He doesn’t fully understand the deal being struck, but that isn’t his purpose. He’s here as a guard and as a servant; he’ll defend his master if necessary, or do whatever he’s ordered to. None of that requires that he understand the details of the deal his master is negotiating with their visitor.

Deathstroke. Slade Wilson. There are threads lingering somewhere in the back of his head that say he knows more, but it’s the kind of loose, frustrating threads he knows will snap before he ever grasps them. If he tries, he'll only be left with empty thoughts and another reminder that whatever he was, he isn't anymore. Maybe he knew more at one point, but he doesn’t now. Now, all he knows is what he can see, and what he can piece together.

Deathstroke must be highly capable, if the Demon’s Head is contracting with him for anything. His armor is high quality, as are the weapons he’s been allowed to keep on him for the meeting. Most people are stripped of weaponry before they’re allowed anywhere near the master, or mistress Talia and her child. So, he’s trusted as well. There are more guards in the room than usual, though, including him. Only sort of trusted, then.

He's taller than almost anyone Jason's met since waking back up. A single blue eye, unnaturally white hair cut short. The hair suggests either dye, or some kind of flavor of abilities, and since Deathstroke has the armor and is apparently capable, Jason thinks that abilities are the more likely option. But he still has heavy armor, and a collection of weapons strung over it all. Probably nothing offensive then, but something subtle? A mutation, or some sort of passive power?

For some reason, these are the kinds of thoughts that come easily. Drawing conclusions, piecing together hints, that's the one thing his mind doesn't stumble over. It feels good, to be able to do at least one thing without coming up blank in the middle of it.

The only other thing he can do without hesitation is fight. That, his mind doesn't have to be involved in. He can just… move.

Hidden behind the mask, Jason lets himself study without bothering to be subtle. Deathstroke's relaxed into the chair, and clearly not threatened despite being surrounded by the League's power. The single eye glances his direction briefly, but he pays no more attention to him than to the rest of the room. His focus is for their master, as it should be.

Jason attunes himself to Deathstroke's body language, devoting his attention to that, rather than the words of the deal being offered. His mind stores the conversation, somewhere (he'll remember it later, he knows), but he lets it pass by him in the moment. It doesn't matter.

Until Deathstroke nods his direction, single eye a little too sharp to be casual, and says, "Give me him."

He tenses. None of them look directly at him.

Why would Deathstroke want him? Why single him out specifically? Is it specifically? But how could Deathstroke possibly know that he's different than the rest of them? He hasn't given any tells, he hasn't _done_ anything; he's sure of it.

It doesn't make—

"Got any belongings to collect, boy?" Deathstroke asks, as he stands.

Jason thinks of his room, clothing beneath the bed and a knife, beneath the mattress. He shakes his head.

"Good, then you're with me. We've got a long flight; sooner we're in the air the sooner it's done with. Let's go."

He glances to his master, but there's no countermand, and Deathstroke is turning away with the clear expectation that he follow. So he does. Even if the Demon's Head didn't want to give him, he's been given; until he's told otherwise, there's no other choice but to follow his new owner's commands. Disobedience is unacceptable.

"Ah yes, Wilson." Jason stops as Deathstroke does, tilting his head to listen as the master continues. "The Light has someone they'll be sending to the League to be sheltered and trained, until the time comes for her to be placed where we want her. I'll have them contact you with the details."

Someone else? He doesn't remember hearing anything about it before, but his master and mistress rarely speak about business when he's in the room. There are only a few League members trusted to be as blind and deaf at any given time as the Demon's Head wants them, and Jason's not one of them.

"I'll look forward to it."

Deathstroke turns away again, and Jason shifts automatically to follow before his master extends a hand, catching his sleeve to draw him to a halt. He stills, and waits as the Demon's Head leans close.

"Obey him until I return, but remember your true loyalty," his master says in his ear, barely above a breath. "You're to watch Wilson, report back his movements. Lady Shiva will relay anything you tell her to me. Understood?"

Jason bows his head, and replies, "Yes, Master," in just as quiet a tone.

"Good. Then go."

His sleeve is released.

Deathstroke's waiting by the arch of the doorway, and Jason hurries to catch up and follow him through. Only once they're through, out on the larger paths and out of earshot, does he say, "Nothing to pick up but last orders from your master, hm?"

Jason hesitates, and Deathstroke snorts.

"Relax, boy. I heard every word, and your owner knows it. He's saving face; makes it seem less like he made a mistake if he pretends he always wanted you to spy on me."

"The Demon's Head doesn't make mistakes," Jason argues, automatically. "He's beyond mortal weakness."

"Didn't waste any time teaching you all the cult bullshit, did they? What are you, seventeen?"

The rake of the blue eye feels physical, like it carves right under his mask and into the scattered bits of his memories, and Jason swallows around an answer he doesn't have. He doesn't _know_. He doesn't look like as much of an adult as the other men here, so he can't be, but the person in the mirror isn't familiar either. No one's told him his age, and none of his flickers of memory have given any answer either.

Deathstroke waits a few moments, and when he apparently decides no answer is incoming, looks back ahead of them and continues. "Ra's al Ghul eats, sleeps, and shits like anyone else, kid. But it sure is valuable if all your little minions think you're some kind of immortal demigod. Discourages any of them from trying to kill you, at least."

Somewhere in his head that rings as true, but his mouth says, “That’s treasonous.”

“I don’t serve the Demon’s Head, he hired me. World of difference, kid.” Another glance back to him. “I don’t owe him anything except the completion of the job he’s paying me for. Loyalty and niceties cost extra.”

Jason’s lips press together, but he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have anything _to_ say to that.

When it's apparently clear that no answer's coming, Deathstroke snorts. "He tried to salvage it, but yeah, kid, he made a mistake. He's not infallible any more than you or me, just old and smart enough to recognize the value in pretending otherwise." They round the corner of the path, trees widening out to show the sleek metal of the jet waiting for them. Deathstroke tosses, "Just something to think about, if you've got more than just some brainwashed dregs of a mind in there," over his shoulder before his stride lengthens.

Jason finds himself glaring. He has to nearly jog to keep up.

Deathstroke is… frustrating. There's something about how he talks, like he's goading but… not really. Maybe it's a test? Maybe it's about trying to turn him away from the Demon's Head, or see if he's loyal enough to stay true even when doubt is introduced. Or some kind of power play; trying to turn him against his master, just to prove he can?

Yeah, that sounds right to him. It would be a win either way, wouldn't it? Either Deathstroke learns that he is loyal, enough to be trusted working with in the League, or he learns that he isn't, and then it's something to 'reveal' to the Demon's Head. Win-win. Just a test, then. No point in falling for the bait.

He can’t see exactly what Deathstroke pulls out, or where it was hidden, but whatever’s in his hand gets the jet’s door to fall open, offering a ramp to the interior. Jason follows him up it, twisting his head to get a good look at everything.

It’s small. Two seats at the front, with an open area behind where cargo would probably go, if there were any. The tech’s high quality, he can see at a glance. It’s probably very fast, and he wouldn’t be at all surprised if it had some kind of stealth tech. He didn’t see any obvious weaponry on the outside, but he finds it hard to believe that a mercenary like Deathstroke would have a jet without serious weaponry on it.

Well, he’s going to find out pretty soon. At least about the speed.

“Sit down, strap in,” Deathstroke orders, already doing just that. “We’re making a stop by one of my safehouses, first. Then we’ll head to the League’s headquarters. Going to be a long trip; no sense wasting time.”

He takes the other seat, buckling the straps over his chest as the jet whirs to life beneath them, responding to the confident flick of Deathstroke’s hands over the controls. The ramp shuts with a quiet hiss.

Jason doesn’t fully remember being in any other jet before — or a plane, or any vehicle, actually — but some piece of memory tells him that the engines should be louder than they are; a loud roar instead of the vibrating rumble that accompanies them lifting up off the pad. It gets a little louder as they even out, shifting to a forward momentum instead of the straight up-and-down, but not by much. It’s… familiar, in a way. It should be louder, but the quiet is familiar.

Maybe he should be more unnerved, flying away from the only place he remembers ever knowing, but he just isn’t. This doesn’t scare him any more than Deathstroke does, or the Demon’s Head. They’re dangerous, and maybe this is too, but there’s no fear in him for it. He can’t explain why.

A flick of a switch, something typed into the main panel too fast for him to recognize exactly what it is, and then an ‘Autopilot Engaged’ message blinks into existence over the whole display. The engines settle to a steady hum, a slight vibration through the metal of the floor beneath his feet. The angle of the nose past the window, and the feel of the pressure building in his ears, tells him that they’re continuing to rise. He swallows reflexively.

“What’s your name, boy?” Deathstroke asks, suddenly.

He’s leaning back when Jason looks over, swiveling the chair enough to clear the blind spot of his missing eye and look straight at him. There’s a sharpness there that seems out of place, but Jason can’t pinpoint a reason for it. Does Deathstroke think he’s going to lie? What would be the point in that?

“Jason.”

There’s a flash of something in the blue eye that looks like satisfaction, but it’s gone before he can truly pin it down. “Jason, hm? My name’s Slade. Or sir, if you want.”

Deathstroke — Slade — isn’t his master, even if he is temporarily being lent to him.

“Understood, Slade.”

There’s a flicker of a smirk. “Good to see you’ve got some spirit in there, underneath all that al Ghul bullshit. Take the mask off, kid.”

Somewhere in the back of his head, with the rest of the broken pieces of his self, something says he shouldn't. But it's just a flash of a feeling.

The mask comes off easy enough, and he lowers it to rest on his lap as he returns his gaze to Slade's. The single eye studies him blatantly, without any attempt to hide it. He stays still and looks right back, examining the faint creases of age near the corner of his eye. Slade looks younger than he is — Jason knows that… somehow — but the age is starting to show around the edges. Just barely. Still, most people would probably guess he was no older than late forties, just with prematurely white hair. Benefits of— of—

He can’t remember. But he’s sure he knew, at one point. He _knew_.

A hand lifts, and though it makes Jason tense a bit as it reaches for him, he stays still. It doesn’t do anything more than push his hood back, though. Then Slade leans back into his chair, mouth curled in a small smirk. His arms cross over his chest.

“Always figured that both a mask and a hood would limit vision too much, myself. But al Ghuls always seem to prefer form over function.” Slade turns away from him, back to the controls of the jet. “It’s a long flight, kid; get comfortable. There’s water and snacks in the trunk at the back, if you’re hungry.”

Jason turns his head enough to see the built-in metal foot-locker that Slade must be talking about. He’s not hungry, or thirsty, but it’s good to know. ‘Get comfortable’ seems like a useless suggestion, though, considering there’s no other furniture in the jet but the seats they’re sitting in. Slade himself is sprawled back in the chair, legs outstretched as far as the bank of controls will allow, gaze flicking idly between the view outside the window and the panel in front of him.

Slowly, Jason simply goes with what feels natural. He draws both legs up into the chair, folding them into an easy cross-legged position. His hands rest on his knees, back supported by the chair and head lightly dipped. If it’s a long flight, maybe he can spend the time meditating, trying to piece together what’s left in his head. He’s had a little luck with it, before. A little is something, at least.

From the other chair, Slade snorts.

He closes his eyes and ignores it.

* * *

Her name's Tara; the girl that the Light sends. She's young, arrogant, rebellious and wild, and capable of ripping chunks of rock out of the ground and flinging them anywhere she wants. A princess, or so Slade tells him. Fresh to her powers, wanting _out_ of all the rules and restrictions of her family, and with just enough of a mean streak that working for a bunch of assassins and supervillains doesn't seem to bother her.

Jason keeps his distance, as much as he can. He's not interested in making friends, and she doesn't have anything to offer to make dealing with her worth it. She's not a challenge to spar, even if the powers make it a little different, and he's not fond of how Slade's clearly using him to make her… Is jealous the right word? Possessive? Whatever it is, it makes her viciously defensive of Slade's attention, even though Jason frankly doesn't care whether or not he has any. It's Slade that keeps pulling him back for 'training,' or to be nearby even when there's no reason for it. Jason would be just as happy avoiding the whole thing.

Well, not all of it. Sparring with Slade is kind of fun, in its own way. Not as serious as what his master or mistress put him through, but still challenging. Slade's fast, strong, and that missing eye isn't nearly as much of a handicap as it probably should be. He doesn't think it's worth all the drama Tara's creating around it, but it's fun.

It's not all Tara's fault. Jason can see how they're all manipulating her, some more blatantly than others. Slade is blatant. From the second Slade saw how she looked at each of them, he's been playing that angle. 'Rewards' of attention, prioritizing her over him (but only when she 'earns' it), while simultaneously holding him up as the benchmark of what she should be. It's obvious that he's playing her, but she doesn't seem to see it. Maybe she really, genuinely believes that Slade returns her interest. Maybe she assumes that people are always going to feel and behave the way she wants them to, and she'll always get what she wants.

In this case, Slade. She wants Slade, and he doles out exactly enough to keep her hooked. It's calculated.

This time is no exception.

Tara's up on her toes, mouth a wicked smile as she speaks to their mutual handler in a voice too low for Jason to hear from his position in the beams of the ceiling. Her hand rests on the armor over Slade's chest, and her back curves under the palm resting against her low back in turn. He's only barely reacting to her, head turned only slightly from the screen in front of him, other hand busy. He doesn't turn to meet it when she leans into his side with all her weight, all but draping against the armor in the way.

Still, his hand stays. Exactly enough attention to keep her interested, without relinquishing anything he doesn't want to. The whole desperate bid is childish, but that's what she is. Desperate for approval, attention, and love, and only wanting it more from the one person who hasn't fallen all over themselves to give it. Jason… He may not remember a lot of his life — only fragmented bits and pieces — but he knows that even though he only looks a few years older, he's not a child like she is. At the least, the Demon's Head trained that out of him, but he thinks… he thinks he stopped being a child long before that.

Slade finally shifts, turning his head to look down the distance she can't bridge, thumb stroking a small half-circle against the skin of her back. His voice is a little louder, enough to carry. "Not now, Tara. Patience, sweet thing."

It's _so_ blatant.

She pouts, drawing back and sighing, long and dramatic. Jason feels his forehead pull into a frown as he watches, stomach tight for reasons he can't fully explain. It's just... not right. What she's doing, what he is. He can't look away, though, for some other inexplicable reason. His gaze stays focused as Slade leans down, tugging her close again with that hand on her back and brushing lips high over a cheek, even though she tries to twist to make it meet her mouth instead. Then he nudges her away and finally pulls his hand back, putting a definitive end to the contact.

She leaves with a sway to her steps, watching over her shoulder with that self-satisfied, enticing smile until the door finally closes behind her. And then, as simple as a switch being flicked, all of the interest and appreciation in Slade's expression and body language melts away. He turns back to the computer, not even a hint in his body language that anything happened, let alone that he gave a shit about any of it.

Jason frowns at the door, biting at his lower lip. Why doesn’t she understand? How can she be that blind to it?

"Why don't you come down, boy?" Slade says, exactly loud enough for him to hear. Not even a glance accompanies it, not that it matters.

He slides out of the darkened corner of the ceiling, catching the steel beam he was crouched on with one hand to control the fall. From there to the top of a server tower, humming and warm to the touch when his hands momentarily brace, letting him swing both legs off the side and drop to the floor with barely a sound. He stands, crossing the room to where Slade waits at the main computer, well within the main source of light from above. He likes the ceiling's many dark spots better; it feels familiar to be up there, and it's useful to avoid notice. Most people's notice.

Slade only looks at him once he's come to stand at the side with his remaining eye, out of respect. It would be more efficient to choose the blind side, but Slade's not a target, and he's not the Demon's Head. He doesn't expect a raised guard and constant attention to those small advantages at all times.

"Enjoy being voyeuristic?" he's asked, dry amusement in the tone but no hint of displeasure. Yet, anyway.

Jason holds the single-eyed gaze, unafraid and unconcerned. Things haven’t changed; Slade still doesn’t scare him at all. Very little does. He knows he has nightmares that he can never remember when he wakes, he knows sometimes there are little things that scare him without any logical reason, but it’s all frustratingly vague. He only knows that most people shrink away from Slade’s gaze, but he doesn’t.

"I was here first," he points out when he's finished tracing that thought, knowing that Slade knows that. He and Tara came in long after Jason had found his dark, solitary corner and relaxed into it. Spying was never the goal. All he wanted was an out of the way, quiet spot to sit with his own thoughts, try one more time to piece together the shattered fragments of his memories. It's an exercise in futility, but he has to _try_.

"True, but you still chose to stay and watch. Not everyone would, especially knowing I would be aware of it."

"I'm not everyone." He crosses his arms, glancing towards the door. Closed; wherever she’s gone, it’s a ways away from here. "Do you want me to interrupt next time?"

Slade lifts the eyebrow over his remaining eye. "Do you want to interrupt?"

He doesn't have an answer to that. Yes, and no. Maybe. Not for his sake but for hers, and she won't take it well so why even try? He might as well let her make her own terrible choices, if she's blind enough to not realize what she's getting into. Why should he care what happens to her? She's abrasive and immature, and only good for her powers, which she doesn't even have full control of. There’s no reason he can remember that he should care.

"You're manipulating her," he says, instead of an answer.

Slade turns to him, fully away from the computer. Unlike Tara, he has Slade's full attention. There's no hint of shame in the confirmation of, "Yes, I am."

Jason frowns again. "She's spoiled. Unstable."

The little smirk that curls Slade's lips is dangerous, and Jason finds himself staring at it. "She's a princess. Does it bother you?"

He's not sure he has a clear answer for that, either. Only these feelings that he doesn't fully understand the source of. "It seems inefficient," he offers instead. "She takes a lot of attention, and her powers don't seem to justify the effort."

"You might be right." Slade's hand lifts, a familiar flick of fingers pushing back the hood of his uniform. He doesn't move as it drops to the back of his neck, or when Slade's fingers trace the curve of his jaw. "The Light wants her trained and controlled, until they’re ready to use her. They’re paying me, so that’s what I’ll do. This just happens to be an easy way to do it. Why? Do you think there's someone else I should be spending my time on instead, Jason?"

He blinks, and frowns a bit deeper. "You're trying to manipulate me, too."

Slade shrugs, fingers still lingering at the bottom of his jaw. "Of course I am. She may be a meta, but you're far more dangerous than her. Smarter, better trained, and of course, more perceptive, as well. You can see what I'm doing; she can't. If you're interested in taking a place closer to my side, I can find a different way to control her. If that’s what you want."

He’s not sure he does. Slade might not scare him, but he’s definitely dangerous, and drawing the attention of dangerous people isn’t a good idea. Probably. Depends on the attention, he supposes. It doesn’t matter, anyway; this is only a temporary assignment, his loyalty is to the Demon’s Head, not some mercenary playing the part. It wasn’t Slade that brought him back from living death. It wasn’t Slade that helped him find a new purpose in life.

But Slade did ask for him. Specifically. The Demon’s Head told him to report back Deathstroke’s actions, as if this was his idea all along, but what Slade told him sounds more and more accurate, the longer he thinks about it. He wasn’t supposed to be for sale. Slade wasn’t supposed to see him. The Demon’s Head made a mistake.

There are too many things in his new world that he doesn’t understand. There’s a way that people look at him like they know him, even if they only spark the faintest thread of familiarity in him. Slade looks at him like that. Did right from the start. No one's told him why.

“Well, boy?”

Jason shifts back, just far enough to dislodge the fingers on his jaw. Instead of answering Slade’s question, he turns the conversation towards his own question. “Why did you ask for me?”

'Be patient,' the Demon's Head had reprimanded him, when he asked who he was. 'You'll remember when the time is right,' he got from Mistress al Ghul, when he dared to ask her the same question. Never any information, never any remedy to this itching hole in his head of why his past escapes him. Or why no one will tell him what he was, even though he can see it in the faces of the ones that know. He's _someone_ , he knows it. He has to be.

He’s _tired_ of not knowing who he is.

“Ah,” Slade smiles, dropping his hand, “I wondered when you’d get around to asking that.”

“You recognized me,” Jason says. “I had no idea who you were, but you recognized me.”

Slade inclines his head. "Yes. I did."

"How?"

"I'd seen your face before." There’s an amused quirk of Slade's mouth when he frowns. "I knew of you, before you took a crowbar to the skull. Can’t say I expected to find a dead boy standing next to Ra’s al Ghul, but I take advantages where I can get them.”

It’s the first time anyone's even hinted at how he died. The first that anyone’s given him any real answers even if it’s just a tease. “What’s the advantage of having me?”

Slade shrugs, leaning his hip into the computer console. “Could be a lot of things. I know a couple people who’d pay anything to get you back, for starters.”

Jason stares, taken aback. Is he really that valuable to someone? “Who?”

“Why do you want to know? Their names wouldn’t mean anything to you.”

"Maybe they will," he argues, trying not to think too hard about those little flashes of memory that haunt him. If he tries to think about them, to try and remember what they really are, they slip right through his fingers. He focuses on the irritation instead, narrowing his eyes as he demands, "Why offer the information if you're not going to give it to me?"

Slade lifts an eyebrow. "Is that what I said, boy? I'm a mercenary. If I’m going to give information, I have to get something for it."

Get something? Like what? What does he have that Deathstroke might want?

His face must show that, because Slade gives an amused rumble of sound and leans fully back against the console, arms crossing. His head turns to stay looking at him. "Lucky for you, I already know what I’m getting from this, kid. You don’t have to pay this one. Just answer one question for me.”

Jason frowns a little deeper. What kind of question? He barely knows anything about himself, let alone anything else. He doesn't really understand what Slade thinks he's going to get, either. If he’s not paying the price for the information, who will? (Does that matter? He wants every answer that Slade can give him, about his past, about who he is, about _everything_. If this is how he gets them, then fine. Let someone else pay whatever the price is.)

He moves to face Slade head-on, standing right in front of him. "Ask."

“Tell me why you want the answers.” Slade shrugs, slightly, when he narrows his eyes. “It’s not likely that just hearing the information’s going to fix your head, kid. So why bother?”

That’s not wrong, but it doesn’t…

“I need to know who I am,” is what comes out of his mouth, but he knows it’s true.

It isn’t about fixing his memories, or anything else. He just doesn’t know who he is, and maybe if he finds out who he used to be, that might give him some clue of what he is now. Maybe not, but where else is he supposed to start?

Slade way he's him for a moment, and then dips his chin in acceptance. “Alright. Ask away, then.”

Just like that?

The list of questions tugs at the back of his mind, and he has to take a breath, bite down on his tongue for a moment to narrow it down to just one thing to start with. He can… follow the thread he had before, for now. "What are their names? The people that would pay for me."

Slade's mouth curves into a thin smile. "Wayne, and Grayson. Among others."

That name… _sticks_.

He swallows, feeling the syllables rasp in his throat even as he says them. "Gray… son."

Blue and black. A blur of motion, a bright smile. He remembers… Something. Something important.

"So it means something after all, hm?" Slade shifts, and it draws his attention back, pulling him back to the world and away from that flicker of memory. "What's in your head, boy?"

"I…” He shakes his head. "I don't know."

His teeth sink into his lip, as that blue flashes in his mind again. Blue… _eyes_. He bites harder, till blood comes to his tongue, till the pain grounds him in the present. His eyes open from where they'd closed, at some point. Slade looks down at him, single _blue_ eye sharp and knowing.

Jason takes a deep breath, licking the blood away from his lip. "Who was I?"

"Jason Todd," Slade says, before giving a sharp twist of a smile. "But most people around here would have known you as Robin."

 _Robin_.

"I know that name," he blurts. "It's— I remember…"

Slade watches him, patient as he struggles to find words and can't. He can't explain how that name rings in the back of his mind, a sharp chime of a bell where everything else has been dull. Everything else except the name 'Grayson.'

He lifts his gaze back to Slade's. Inhales. "Tell me more."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Skalidra's tumblr](https://skalidra.tumblr.com/)
> 
> [Firefright's tumblr](https://firefrightfic.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> [Skalidra's tumblr](https://skalidra.tumblr.com/)
> 
> [Firefright's tumblr](https://firefrightfic.tumblr.com/)


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